Second Time's the Charm
by soaring-smiles
Summary: It's almost like he isn't doing this, like he isn't affected. Nice friendly chat, no blatant invasion of space. But his fingers are playing with the folds of fabric, and twisting tighter in her hair.


Something metallic slicks her throat, the drink that she clutches in her hand, maybe. She takes another sip, sways and tries to make sense of the scene presented to her.

It's lit up, even the grass shines, highlighted by the flames that leap from a pile of silver wood in the middle of the meadow. Strands of moonlight twine through the sky, alighting on odd places, the arc of a branch, the smooth trunk of a navy coloured tree.

It's a festival, he says to her. People with gossamer wings flit past, tall and rake-thin, big needy eyes and collarbones that protrude at sharp angles. They're impossibly beautiful, with a strange grotesque grace. Each holds a bright, sparkling light in their hands, and each places it reverently at the base of the bonfire.

Fairies were based on these Glintlythians, he tells her, lips at her ear, already pressing something icy and cool into her fingers, and she's lost her other cup on the ground a while ago.

But these aren't fairies. They're fucking behind bushes, or in plain sight, and dancing wildly around the green and purple fire that shoots into the black. They bite and kiss and draw blood, stark against the pale green of their papery skin.

Rose stumbles in her heels, dizzy and unbalanced. The night above her is closing in, cool and frigid, stars glowing behind and in front of her eyes.

Music reaches her, soft and slightly eerie. A hand slips in hers, anchors her to the spinning ground. The world is condensed to sensations; the tulle skirt brushing against her thighs, the heavy glitter and paint weighed against her skin, and the rustle of silk and fabric near to her ear.

She shuts her eyes against the overwhelming colour. Another drink is raised to her lips. She takes a sip, almost automatically. Someone has an arm about her waist.

"Doctor?" she asks, because it is him, isn't it, holding her so close. She can't mistake him, not ever.

"We got married here, in forty years time," he says.

"Mmm."

"We get arrested," he ponders. "It was your fault."

She smiles at that, looking up at the blur of pinstripes. Nails are digging into the tender skin of her wrist, and she realises they're hers.

"Can we go home?"

"Oh, can't do that! Party's just starting! Bananas, drinks, banana _drinks_..."

"Bit dizzy, Doctor," she tries, motioning to the cup.

"Oh, you'll be fine. Culture shock. Now, Rose Tyler, care to dance?"

Looking out at the strange creatures whirling around in perfect time. She nods. "'Kay."

In her state she keeps knocking into-er-people, and stumbling over a pair of infuriating red Converses. Whenever she tries to swear at him, her mouth doesn't quite form the right shapes, and she ends up murmuring incoherently, lost in all of it.

And then he's pulling her away from the crowd, shouting something about spikes in energy, and she's running, laughing drunkenly, and God her shoes _hurt_.

She slings them off into the trees that surround them, but he doesn't stop, and she's falling to the leaf-covered ground, torn from his grip. Her knees sting, her elbows are scraped. A tree root ensnares her left foot.

It's dark.

Her breathing is the only sound, and it's much worse than noises. No one is stamping on the crackled leaves, shouting her name. No blue tinged whirr calls her out to him.

"Doctor," she tries to say.

A bubble of fear rises up in her. She's lost on a strange planet, intoxicated in a pitch black forest, and she's just lost her guide and best friend to the shadows.

She does have a nose for trouble, she thinks hazily. Oh, he's never going to let her forget this.

Rose untangles herself, and stands up somewhat unsteadily, torn scraps of lace and satin hovering high above her knees.

It's a soft pink, the dress, fabric studded with gems and sparkles, short and teasing and clinging. It doesn't satisfy anyone. Too long to be obscene, too low cut and short to be wearable in the daylight. She can't decide whether she wants more or less.

It's Traditional Glintlythian, though. He told her that. Somewhere in the recesses of her fogged up mind, she remembers he chose it. Not the TARDIS.

She also remembers seeing unmarried women and girls, at the grooming tent, with long, modest swathes of fabric. And the scathing contemptuous looks they shot her.

_Oops_, she realises belatedly. _They think I'm his prostitute._ She giggles. Another thought whirls around. He _wanted_ them to think that.

Oh.

A snapping makes her jump, heart pounding and dancing somewhere between her throat and fingertips. She sucks in a breath, takes a step forward.

"Doctor?" she calls brazenly, and stupidly.

Something ghosts along her neck. Soft fingers clear tangles of hair from her forehead. She keeps absolutely still.

"Doctor?" she asks again, smaller and less certain. If she concentrates, the lights from the fire just intrudes on her vision. As it is, darkness blankets her.

"_Doctor_."

There's a stagnant pause.

"Rose," he returns, and her muscles relax. She sighs, and fumbles for his hand. He always comes back. Stupid to doubt him.

But she can't find him, even though she can feel a presence behind her.

"Can we go home?" Her voice is uncertain, and she bites her lip, tasting the remnants of strong alcohol and honey.

"Do you want to?"

She's about to reply yes, when his hand drops to her hip. He curls it lightly, burning through her dress, searingly hot. Another winds through her hair, coiling it thickly, pulling her head back, so when he asks again, his words hover against the pulse of her throat.

The affirmative won't escape her. She swallows. "What about the energy spike?" she asks, slurring her words slightly.

He laughs. "Taken care of, actually. Silly couple tried to play with the TARDIS, thought it was a toy. Set them straight, came back to look for you."

"Right."

It's almost like he isn't doing this, like he isn't affected. Nice friendly chat, no blantant invasion of space. But his fingers are playing with the folds of fabric, and twisting tighter in her hair.

They're both silent for an endless moment, broken by the call of a bird, at which they both startle. She flinches into him, and feels something hard against her lower back.

Then, abruptly, his mouth is on hers.

It's forceful and demanding. He slides his tongue between her lips, taking control. He presses deeper against her, clawing at her skin, almost certainly leaving a mark. Just as she begins to turn, neck aching at the uncomfortable position, he's gone. She reaches out, dazed and more than slightly confused.

Then her back is against a tree, bark scratching her bare shoulders, and he's kissing her again. A shudder ripples down her spine.

His lips vanish, but reappear at her collarbone, biting and sucking at the flesh, until they hit the neckline.

With a hum of frustration, he finds the clasp of the dress at the back, and slides it off, until it piles at her feet, and she feels the freezing air caress her skin. It's followed by her bra, which he dismantles with ease, and she can almost see the expression on his face, one of smugness and half suprised delight.

She's only cold for a moment before every calculated scrape of his teeth against her breast sends a throb of heat to pool in her belly.

She doesn't even know what sounds she's making, but they're unintelligible. And when he swirls his tongue around her nipple, she groans out, and pulls his head closer, arching up.

"Do it again," she orders breathlessly, and he does, slower and lighter. She's aware of nothing but him. She thinks he likes it that way.

Then he moves onto the other one, slowly and tantalizing. He's got a very talented tongue, and when he-_oh god._

Rose thinks she shouldn't be this affected. Her knickers are soaked already, and every nerve is a live wire. He doesn't appear to mind, though.

When he reaches her hip, and nips at it, she pulls him back up, and starts fumbling at his buttons, driven by the intense need to have him inside her, now.

The tie goes, followed by the suit. She grins at the growl she gets when her nails run down his chest. She's matched to him perfectly, puzzle pieces found and all that.

There's not a bit of skin he's not covering. For a moment, the frantic arousal recedes, and all she wants is to stand here forever, held so tightly she could burst.

But he's trembling, she notes. Her hand snakes in between them, unfastens the trousers, and she's delighted to learn he's not wearing boxers or briefs.

One hand slips down to her knickers, slides them off. He teases, so him, and doesn't touch her until she makes a whiny, pleading noise.

"Beg Rose," he says.

"Please."

He cups her. A finger, stroking feather-like.

"Please."

He circles expertly, and maybe he's watched her night-time sessions, to know what she likes, because it's building, building, pleasure washing through her, spark after spark. Each hint of friction sends another wave of sensation, bringing her higher.

It's almost, almost too much. But he's here, with her, steadying her, while still going, rubbing roughly, faster, until she's on the brink.

"Say it." His voice is raw.

"_Please_."

And she's so lost, keening into his ear, ecstasy running in her veins, clawing at his bare skin. Maybe she's drawn blood. It doesn't matter.

Breathless, she slumps against him. A smile stretches her mouth, and she could say it, right here.

She stays still for a moment, sated, before realizing he's breathing heavily, tearing the silence to pieces.

He jerks into her, involuntarily. He's hard, so hard, pressing against her stomach, and if she pushes up that last inch, then-then-

"Rose," he hisses, clutching at her. Her legs lift up, open for him, and he hesitates, and stupid idiot, doubts now, of all times?

"Do it," she says, and kisses him.

Then he's in her. He bites down on her shoulder as he slides into her. The pain is nothing.

Giving her a second to adjust to him, he hoists her legs up, supports her weight against the tree

"M'not exactly light-weight," she says. "Might collapse."

He doesn't reply. He's speechless.

Then, almost shyly, he starts moving. Slow, gentle, and not what she wants at all. He's remembered her, too, stroking her in the same rhythm, and setting off another reaction.

He's making love to her. As much as that thought warms her heart, what she wants-_needs_, is for him to take her.

Getting tired of all the hesitance, because that's what this relationship is _made_ of, she speeds up the circling of her hips. She tells him faster, harder, rougher. And she wishes she could see him when he lets go of his control.

Instead, she feels it. He thrusts deeper and savage, slamming her back onto the bark. He's babbling, now, mouth running off at a million miles an hour, interspersed with filthy curses she's never heard him say before.

"Rose," he moans, as his movements jerk and become erratic, closer and closer.

"Rose," as she comes hard, crying out to whatever heaven she can think of, but really talking to him, trying to think the words she can't say.

And "Rose," as he spasms and spills into her, a long muffled groan, rocking back and forth, praying to her instead of God.

When he wraps an arm around her, and covers her with his jacket, she wonders if this was orchestrated from the start.

She asks him.

"Well," he says, a guilty tone coloring his voice, "it is the Festival of, er, Fertility."

"Oh. You got me drunk."

"Yes."

"And chose the skimpiest dress you could find."

"In a manner of speaking."

She hits him, aiming for his shoulder but connecting with his nose instead.

"Your seduction skills need work."

They reach the TARDIS, and he unlocks it. She finds it unfair he can see perfectly in the dark.

She's still considering the fact he planned this. Biting her lip, Rose runs a hand through her mussed, tangled hair. She's surprisingly clear-headed, now.

Maybe he fucked her sober. Rose frowns. Knowing him, he most likely did. He's the most extraordinary thing she's ever met.

She...loves him. Properly. That sort of love you read about in books. She's finally forgiven him for changing, for leaving her, for keeping secrets.

And when she looks at him, ruffled and lips swollen, undone shirt, winding the tie nervously around his hands, she loves him more. He's got glitter smudged on his lips, and more on his neck and hands.

(She won't ever tell him, she doesn't think. But right now, just knowing is enough)

He looks so guilty, like he stole from the cookie jar. But then, staring at him, she's probably not giving the best impression of happiness.

"Was it-" He clears his throat, "alright?"

"Brilliant," she says softly, smiling.

"I was rough," He doesn't look at her."Did I...hurt you?"

"No. I wanted you to be rough. Next time slower, yeah?" She reaches for his hand.

He grins blindingly as her words set in, and switches from unsure to confident.

Nudging her, an arm wrapped round her waist, he whispers in her ear,

"I told you I had the moves."

She nudges back, eyebrow raised, unimpressed written all over her.

"Last time you couldn't even snog me properly."

_That_ shuts him up.

* * *

Forty years later, making a daring escape from prison for not getting married properly, Rose sees a glint of something in a bush.

Tearing away from her jacketed, irate companion, she picks up a pair of pretty gem-studded heels.

"_Nice_," she murmurs, and carries them back to the TARDIS.

(She only wears them the once)


End file.
